I was curled up on the couch with Oliver, watching a movie, when his laptop pinged. He had stepped into the bathroom, leaving it open on the coffee table. I glanced at the glowing subject line: “Dear Mr. Oliver, We are happy to announce the New Year party is coming up! Dress code: White Party. You may bring your plus-one (your wife).”
I blinked. His company never allowed plus-ones. I’d heard him complain about it countless times. Yet here it was, in black and white—plus-one, specifically his wife.
When Oliver returned, I tried to sound casual. “Your office is throwing a New Year’s party?”
He closed the laptop quickly. “Oh, yeah. Nothing big. Just the usual end-of-year stuff.”
“Can I come?” I asked, smiling.
He froze, then brushed it off. “No, they don’t allow guests. It’s more of a work event.”
“But the email said—”
“They don’t, Jen. Trust me. I’ll just be working that night.” His clipped tone unsettled me. For the first time, I felt something was off.
New Year’s Eve arrived, and curiosity gnawed at me. I slipped into a white dress, determined to see for myself. Oliver kissed my cheek, wished me Happy New Year, and left. Minutes later, I followed.
The hotel glowed with silver streamers and twinkling lights. Guests in sparkling white outfits mingled. At the reception desk, I said confidently, “Jennifer. I’m Oliver’s wife.”
The manager’s smile faltered. “Nice try. Oliver already checked in—with his wife.”
My chest tightened. “What?”
“He arrived thirty minutes ago. They always come together.”
I turned and spotted Oliver in a crisp white suit. Beside him was a woman with long dark hair, her arm draped over his shoulder. They laughed, leaning close, unmistakably intimate.
I walked out into the cold night, fire burning inside me. Oliver was going to regret this.
The next morning, the phone rang. “Is this Mr. Oliver’s wife?” a calm voice asked.
“Yes,” I replied, stomach twisting.
“This is Mercy Hospital. Your husband was in a car accident. He’s stable, but we need you to come in.”
At the hospital, a doctor explained, “His arm is fractured. We need surgery, but his insurance lapsed. As his wife, you can authorize the procedure.”
When I entered his room, Oliver looked fragile, pale, bandaged. “Jen,” he croaked.
“You lied to me,” I said coldly. “I saw you with her.”
“It’s not what you think—”
“I don’t want explanations. The doctor says you need surgery, but your insurance lapsed. That sounds like a problem for your real wife.”
“Jen, don’t do this,” he whispered. “Please, just sign the papers.”
I stared at him, torn between anger and pity. But then I remembered all the lies. “No, Oliver. You made your choices. Now live with them.” I walked out without looking back.
Days later, Oliver called from the hospital. “She didn’t come. I’m alone. I need you.”
I said nothing at first, then replied steadily, “You made your choice, Oliver. Now deal with the consequences.” I hung up and blocked his number.
Word spread quickly—his affair was exposed, his career crumbled, and the woman vanished. But I didn’t feel sorry. I felt free.
I signed up for pottery classes, hiked trails I’d always wanted to explore, and painted again. For years, I had been the dutiful wife. But now, I was stepping into my own life.
